


Cruelty Of Fate (Could Just Be A Salvation)

by HiMiTSu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, M/M, Prompt Fic, Tristan and Isolde AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6758176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiMiTSu/pseuds/HiMiTSu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For an anon prompt: sterek. tristan and isolde au where derek is tristan, stiles is isolde and peter is mark</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruelty Of Fate (Could Just Be A Salvation)

**Author's Note:**

> I used the plot of the opera, simply because it was more structured and detailed. Also I only took one act to turn into a story, otherwise I’d have to re-write it all and I’m not sure it’s something you wanted. Or I was ready to write. (Honestly a lot of things I think are fine in a opera would make me cringe in any other art form). So I left it on a strange note but I hope you can still enjoy this! (Also I thought such ending would work for people who are not famiiar with the plot at all)
> 
> My first time writing a medieval au. That was fun! I hope it turned out alright:)

The sea was restless; Stiles could feel it even without looking at the wild waves beating at the hull. The wood creaked and groaned but held. Stiles wished it wouldn’t. He wanted the sea to swallow down the vessel, sink it under the mighty waves, bringing everyone down with it.

The sailors started a song to keep away the gloom – a humorous melody that made his teeth grind and his nails dig into his palms. A sharp pain was a small relief, his anger stronger than the wrath of a water god. A soft hand settled on his, gentle fingers prying his hold open. Stiles looked up to see Lydia at his side. Her soulful eyes were full of pity and pain and Stiles resented and loved her for it in equal measure. She didn’t say anything, just stood by his side; her beautiful red hair got blown by the wind and her expensive dress was soaked by sea water but she was solid as a rock, standing by him in this hour of sorrow.

Stiles willed his body to relax and leaned back against the wet wood of the main mast. He could feel the ship, its struggle against the wind and the waves, wished bitterly for it to lose. Lydia’s warm hands cupped his face, brushing away the salty water from his cheeks.

“Come with me below deck,” she offered softly but Stiles merely shook his head, swallowing a lump in his throat. Her gaze, full of mourning, searched his face. His dull eyes stared right back and she gave a tense smile that didn’t reach her eyes and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t stay up here too long.”

“I won’t,” Stiles promised, his voice scratchy.

She nodded and left him alone with his tormenting thoughts once again.

The sailors’ song continued, persisting over the rushing wind. Stiles’ gaze swept over the deck and the men, hunched over from the cold and the rain, but resolute to keep their spirits high. At the helm stood a lonely figure – he was the one who Stiles cursed with his every breath, the one reason Stiles shamelessly wished death for everyone on the ship. Stiles’ hatred of him was deeper than the sea itself.

Derek, of the werewolf clan Hale, half turned, as if he had felt the burning gaze at his back. His eyes met Stiles’ and he gave a little bow of respect. Stiles laughed bitterly at the gesture and, for the first time, wished his powers were of murder not of healing nature. Stiles was a protector, bound to his homelands and destined to help out his people. He believed sacredly in his gift and his duty up until the moment he turned out to be unable to help the person who meant the most to him. Fates were cruel that way and when his brother, in every term but by blood, Scott of the clan McCall was mortally wounded in a battle for territory, Stiles was not there to help him.

He got the news about the battle with Hales much later, when the invaders were already thrown back…but at what cost. At that moment Stiles cursed himself and cursed every deity he could remember. He ran away into the woods, unable to bear the sight of his best friend’s body. That was when Stiles first met him…

* * *

 

_The forests of Beacon Hills were infamous all across the lands; they were lush and stretched far and wide through the whole kingdom, and many a magical creature find home under its canopy. The tall trees towering over Derek at that moment looked ominous._

_Legends said that the forest was sentient, each tree and every grass blade a part of it soul. As thus the forest decided whether the creature entering the grounds would be allowed to live or would perish in its depths. Strangers stayed away from it, but those pure of heart and desperately seeking help dared to enter and often got their wishes granted. The forest was just and merciful, people claimed._

_Derek pleaded with the forest, asking for help, but he didn’t hold much hope. After all, foreign invaders were never held in high honor. It did not matter that they started by protecting their own lands and continued the attack even when they crossed Beacon Hills borders. It didn’t matter that Derek and his men where following orders of their Lord. It didn’t matter that Derek won a in fair battle with the Lord of this land. All that was insignificant in the face of what he had done. Because Derek had killed Scott McCall, a fair ruler and protector of Beacon Hills._

_And now, mortally wounded himself, Derek crawled under the heavy canopy of the forest, hoping to come upon a spring of cool water. A deep gash that had torn his side was too severe even for a werewolf.  Derek knew his fate: separated from his men, without any medical help he’d join the realm of the dead by nightfall. And still he went on, further into the woods as if lead by an invisible force. Might be the ancestors of the land, he thought gloomily, leading him to a death even worse than what awaited him already._

_Derek stumbled into a clearing, his legs unable to hold him anymore, and pressed his face into the cool foliage. His throat was dry and body weak and he laid there, defenseless and ready to accept his fate. It took a lot of effort to crane his neck and look up; the clearing was small, tall ancient trees in perfect circle around a huge tree stump in the middle. The ground under his hands was dead, only the fallen leaves and maggots, like nothing could grow on this patch of land. Derek pushed with his hands, fingers dogging into the dirt, and rolled onto his back. He looked at the sky above and prayed to the gods that were not his own. He was exhausted and his eyelids felt heavy, Derek knew if he closed his eyes he would not open them again in this life. He let sleep claim him._

_A voice, very distressed, tugged Derek back to consciousness. He pried his eyes open to see a young man leaning over him, his big warm eyes held panic and his pleas for Derek to wake up were desperate. The stranger was beautiful, pale skin decorated with a splatter of moles, sharp features but soft eyes in a circle of long dark lashes. It was an image concocted by his tired mind, one last fantasy he would see before death and Derek loved this fantasy instantly. He smiled faintly._

_But a sharp pain on his cheek gave him back some of his mind. A slap still stung but at least Derek realized with a sudden clarity that he wasn’t dead yet. And that the beautiful boy was trying to help. He was pressing both hands to Derek’s wound and muttering the words of a spell under his breath. The gash hurt from the pressure and Derek couldn’t hold a groan but the boy shushed him impatiently so Derek bit his lip until he tasted blood in his mouth. His gaze was locked on the boy’s eyes, they burned with intensity and resolution to help and something else…a dangerous fire within, the light of ancient magic residing in his soul._

_The boy’s hands felt warm on his torn skin, until they blazed hot with power and then Derek screamed. The sound echoed through the forest, birds took flight and small animals scattered away from the raw pain in it._

_“Shhhh,” the boy ran a hand through his hair, pressing down so that Derek would lie still. “Almost done.”_

_Derek’s breath wheezed through clenched teeth as he held back another scream. The eyes, those gorgeous hazel eyes were his one distraction, his only salvation._

_“What is your name?” The boy asked, softly._

_“Derek,” he gritted out but even that was too much and he felt the exhaustion taking him again._

_“Go to sleep, Derek. I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

_The next time Derek opened his eyes he was not feeling like he had been torn open any more; his side hurt but he knew, despite how weak he was at that moment, it would heel with time. Nimble fingers were running through his hair and a water skin was pressed to his lips. He drunk hungrily, spilling as much as he was gulping down. It was invigorating._

_The boy was sitting by his side but his expression was cautious now and his beautiful eyes were guarded. He lowered the water skin and gripped something that was out of Derek field of vision._

_“You said your name is Derek,” the boy stated. “Of the Hale clan?”_

_The way he said…it implied he knew who Derek was and so he must have known what Derek had done. Still, Derek replied. “Yes,” his voice did not sound as strong as he wanted it to. “I killed your Lord.”_

_The boy’s eyes widened at such a bold confession._

_“You killed Scott.” The boy gulped._

_Derek saw his fury and his grief and so he didn’t move when the boy put a knife to his throat._

_“He was my brother,” he whispered furiously. Tears ran down his face and the boy wore them proudly. A sign of his mourning which had only now began. A banner to his anger._

_His grip on the knife was unsteady and his hand shook but he still pressed the blade into Derek’s skin._

_“It was a fair fight.” It was the only thing Derek wanted to say._

_The boy leaned over him, their eyes locked and his tears dripped to Derek’s cheek._

_“He was an honorable warrior. I’m sorry I had to kill him.”_

_The knife pressed deeper, the cut stung. Derek didn’t dare move. The boy had the right to his revenge. At least he would die looking in those magical eyes. The boy’s eyelids trembled and a tear got caught on his lashes, his lips pressed together on a sob._

_“It was a fair fight,” the boy echoed weakly. More tears fell, Derek couldn’t take his gaze off them._

_And then suddenly the knife was gone and the boy was stumbling backwards, falling back in the dirt. He hastened to move away, his frantic eyes opened wide. He shook his head._

_“Leave this land and never return,” he ordered breathlessly. “If I ever see you again I will kill you.” And he got to his feet quickly and stumbled from the clearing, disappeared into the forest._

_Derek slumped back against the wet fallen leaves and dreamt._

Fates brought them together once more and still it was no happy meeting, Derek thought as he stood at the helm of his ship. After many years of war a peace was finally negotiated and Beacon Hills gave up its Healer as proof that they will hold to their promise. Lord Hale, Derek’s uncle was supposed to marry the young man from another land and thus put an end to vicious battles. It was a joyous news and the sailors were celebrating, but Derek…he couldn’t even force a smile for the sake of his men.

Stiles’ hateful glare followed his every move. Out on the deck in the wide sea Derek felt trapped. He stood at the helm, looking in the distance, hoping for the sight of the shore and dreading it all the same.

That’s where Lydia, Stiles’ trustful servant found him.

“Stiles wishes you to come below deck and drink your atonement to him.” She said with a shallow stiff bow, disdain clear in her gaze.

Derek considered the offer, instantly suspicious of it. “I’ll consider it.”

“No.” The woman said resolutely. “Stiles will not come up to the deck until you do as he commands.” _Commands – not asks._ The turn of phrase did not escape the knight. No good would come of it, Derek knew but he could not escape Stiles’ wishes. He was indebted to the young man, so he bowed his head in obedience. “I shall be there shortly.”

“Good.” She threw the word to his feet and stormed away.

Derek looked away at the sea, restless waves and harsh wind, and knew something much worse awaited him in the comfort of Stiles’ quarters.

* * *

 

“You are mad!” Lydia’s words were rushed as she closed the door behind her and leaned heavily on the wood.

Stiles glanced at her impassively and continued rummaging in his chest. Scott’s death hit him hard, but the land needed its healer still and he struggled through every day, finding himself new tasks and new people to help. But the announcement that he would have to leave his beloved land was the one blow he could never survive. His spirit was dead, as was the light in his eyes. Now they could only look on listlessly and only when he looked at Derek Hale was there some fire in them – a hatred so intense it beat even his usual apathy.

“Stiles,” Lydia pleaded, reaching out for him, but Stile stepped away from her reach, the leather purse he was looking for finally in his hands. He handed it carefully to her.

“I’ve made my decision.”

There was no changing his mind, she knew and still…Lydia reached into the bag, a dozen small vials clinked merrily – she knew one he needed by touch. Stiles nodded at the vial as she took it out.

“Please…” Lydia didn’t know what else to say. She could not reason with him, but he was also cold to her begging. His emotionless eyes stopped her and the words died in her mouth.

Stiles turned away to get two cups and a jug of wine, he handed the last item to her. Under his insistent gaze she took the jug.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Lord Hale. Lydia held the jug to her chest and side stepped Stiles swiftly to get to the table, leaving him to greet the guest.

She had to move quickly. Lydia opened the leather bag, grabbing another potion. In her hand two vials sat, both innocently small, but each capable of causing horrible damage. One for hate, another for love…her fingers skimmed from one vial to another as in her mind she contemplated if she was capable of such a betrayal. Can she go against Stiles’ wishes and doom him to years of life which he’d grow to hate some day; after all pressing a love to a man Stiles hated the most upon him…But if the second choice was death to the both of them? Lydia’s hand trembled. Behind her Stiles was insisting that Lord Hale owed him his life. Lord Hale agreed and fell to his knees and was offering Stiles his sword. It was not enough.

Lydia made a decision. One vial she unscrewed and dropped the potion into the wine, the other she hid in the folds of her dress.

“Drink your atonement to me.” Stiles’ voice was cruel and cold.

Lord Hale lifted his eyes, there was no doubt he knew what fate awaited him if he agreed to drink with Stiles. “If that is what you wish.” He replied never taking his eyes off the other man.

Stiles, a dark pleased smile marrying his face, turned to pour two cups. He gave one to Lord Hale.

“Drink with me, Derek.” Stiles ordered softly.

Lord Hales’ eyes widened in shock; his fingers closed around the cup and he lifted it to his lips. Stiles nodded in approval. Lord Hale submitted to his face and took a drink as Stiles watched.

Wordlessly, Stiles drank his own potion in one gulp.

Lydia prayed she made the right choice.


End file.
